Batman: Rebirth
by White-Knight-1988
Summary: Post-DK. With the Joker in Arkham and Harvey Dent dead Bruce Wayne has finally retired the Batman persona for good. But when a new criminal appears, the people of Gotham City are once again left at the mercy of Batman to save them.


**Batman: Rebirth**

**Chapter One – "The Start of Something Big"**

**Original Posting Date: August 20, 2008**

**Summary: With the Joker in Arkham, Harvey Dent dead, and Batman to blame for the District Attorney's death, Bruce Wayne has finally retired the Batman persona for good in the hopes that Gotham's police can keep the city safe. But when a new criminal appears, leaving intricate clues that even Gotham's best detectives can't decipher, the people of Gotham City are once again left at the mercy of Batman to stop this madman before it's too late.**

**A/N: I'm not making a cent off this. Any familiar characters are all property of DC and are used strictly for non-profitable entertainment purposes. Now that that's out of the way, on with the story.**

**--**

It wasn't supposed to be this way.

As a steady stream of water pellets rained down on billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne from the clouded heavens on this cold November day, his only conscious thought was that things weren't supposed to have turned out this way. He looked down on the simple headstone of Rachel Dawes, the only woman he'd ever truly loved, and knew that she and Harvey Dent, one of the few men in Gotham City he'd ever trusted, shouldn't have been dead. In Bruce's eyes, they'd still be alive if Batman hadn't failed to save them.

It had been nearly six months since their deaths, Rachel's at the hands of Joker and Harvey's at the hands of Batman himself. And though he'd come to accept that things were probably better for Harvey this way, he still hadn't fully come to terms with the fact that Rachel was gone forever. Deep down, beneath the many masks that Bruce wore throughout the day, he was hurting in a way that he hadn't experienced in almost twenty years.

The urge to slip away and disappear from the cruelness of the world was tugging at Bruce as strongly as it had when he'd seen Joe Chill gun down his parents right before his eight year-old eyes. Unfortunately for Bruce, he'd never be able to do that again. While the Batman persona had been retired shortly after the Joker's apprehension by the Gotham City Police Department, Bruce still felt the same commitment to the city that he felt when he had prowled the streets as the Dark Knight. Regardless of what happened, Bruce was going to stand behind Gotham until one of them met their end.

Managing a small smile at the thought, Bruce mused that he was likely to be gone long before Gotham crumbled. With the news of Harvey's death and Jim Gordon's relatively recent promotion to Police Commissioner, Gotham finally had faces for their heroes, something Batman could never provide them, and so he'd hung up the armor and cowl for good. Gordon had so far flourished in his new role, cleaning up the streets of Gotham without the help of Batman, whose sudden disappearance was welcomed by Gothamites when they'd heard that Batman was responsible for the death of their beloved District Attorney.

Clutching a black umbrella in one hand and a bouquet of red roses in the other, Bruce gazed on Rachel's headstone as if he expected something to happen by doing so. Aside from failing to save her, Bruce's strongest regret was that he hadn't made her enough of a priority in his life when he'd had the chance. Her one stipulation in their being together had been that Gotham no longer needed Batman; the end of Batman coming just days after her death seemed to Bruce like little more than another one of the cruel twists that life consistently threw in his path.

Standing a few feet behind Bruce, dressed in a black suit, white dress shirt, and black bowtie, was Alfred Pennyworth, Bruce's butler and most trusted confidant. Holding an umbrella of his own, the gray-haired man waited patiently for his young friend to end this birthday visit. Alfred had already paid his respects, wishing Rachel a very Happy Birthday wherever she was, but Bruce had needed a little more time.

While Bruce continued to mourn the dead, Alfred had only just begun to mourn the living. Whether Bruce realized it or not, he was slipping away, something Alfred had recognized from the moment it started. Coincidentally, it wasn't Rachel's death that had caused Bruce to lose his connection to the world. No, it was the night after he and Alfred had shut down Batman's temporary base of operations in Wayne Tower that it had started.

Alfred had been sleeping when Bruce returned to the penthouse from a late night of partying with some of Gotham's most recognizable faces. Though they slept on different floors, Bruce's entrance was so loud that it had woken Alfred from his slumber. Shortly after that, Alfred found Bruce in the former Batman room, staring out into nothingness. Since that night, Bruce had only grown sadder and more distant.

Eventually, even Bruce had to admit that they'd been at the cemetery for an awfully long time. He wasn't sure how long exactly, but he estimated that it had to have been at least an hour if not more. Sighing, he bent down and laid the roses next to her headstone; carefully pulling one of the flowers from the bouquet, he set it at a diagonal across the gray slab.

"I'm sorry I failed you, Rachel," whispered Bruce, closing his eyes for but the briefest of moments. Slowly, he reopened them and turned around to face Alfred. No sooner had Bruce laid eyes on Alfred than he felt the need to divert the attention away from himself. "The Joker had his sentencing hearing today; no less than twenty-five years in Arkham. They're transferring him from county this afternoon."

Walking towards the black Rolls-Royce that Bruce owned and Alfred drove, the older man nodded his head. "Yes, I saw it on the television this morning, sir. I'd wager it'll be a very long time before anyone hears from him," said Alfred in a thick English accent, pausing at the unconvinced expression that Bruce wore. "Do you reckon he'll be out sooner rather than later, Master Wayne?"

Shrugging his shoulders helplessly, Bruce shook his head. "Who knows, Alfred? Even if he does get out, there's nothing I can do about it anymore. Criminals are for the police to deal with now, not me."

Coming to a stop in front of the Rolls-Royce, Alfred opened the door to the backseat, holding the handle as he waited for Bruce to enter. Without another word, Bruce climbed into the car, but not before sparing one last glance at the place where Rachel lay.

Walking around to the driver's side of the vehicle, Alfred spoke quietly to himself. "One day, Master Wayne, the people of Gotham City will need you again, and when they do, I hope you'll be ready for them."

Pulling on a pair of black leather driving gloves, Alfred cautiously maneuvered the car onto the road slick with rain. He'd seen a twinkle in Bruce's eyes at the mention of the Joker and the possibility that he might one day prowl the streets of Gotham again. Observing the younger man in the rearview mirror, Alfred noted the way Bruce had so suddenly gone from saddened and depressed to a demeanor that was colder than ice. Right then and there, Alfred knew that Bruce would never truly be at peace until each and every one of Gotham's criminals, from the lowliest of carjackers to sociopaths like the Joker, was brought to justice.

--

Gotham's Main Street Bar & Grill—ironically located nowhere near Main Street—was a seedy little hole-in-the-wall just beyond the city's downtown area. Its inauspicious locale had long ago made it the perfect establishment for the less than favorable crowd of Gotham City to conduct business, and tonight was no exception.

In the restrooms, a drug deal was taking place; standing near a pool table that was faded and torn, four men quietly discussed a plan to rob Gotham's First National Bank; and in a booth at the back of the bar, a hit was being arranged on a Gotham City councilman. As all of this was going on a tall, husky man wearing a brown trench coat sat at the counter, sipping a beer while taking mental notes of everything he heard. Even when he wasn't on the clock, he was always working.

Behind the bar, mounted in the corner, was a small television playing the evening news. Gotham City News reporter Mike Engel's steel-blue eyes pierced through the screen; as he recapped the day's events, the man at the bar took a long drink from the brown glass bottle.

"_Early this morning, a Gotham City judge ruled on the future of the notorious Joker. After being sentenced to a minimum of twenty-five years in Arkham Asylum, the Joker was safely transported to the asylum from county prison just hours ago. It's also worth noting that the crime rate in Gotham City has dropped significantly in the six months since Gotham City Police apprehended the Joker…_"

"Damn right!" the large man roared, pounding his fist against the countertop. His outburst drew the attention of the bar's occupants, some of whom suddenly became just a little more cautious of what they said. Moments later, he realized what he'd done and silently reminded himself of that which is boss was always telling him. _"You're good at what you do; damn good. Just do it a little bit quieter."_

It was simply bad luck that the tiniest of slipups had garnered the interest of one of the less than favorable in the crowd. Reeking of cheap booze and even cheaper cologne, the man at the bar could smell his new companion long before he'd intentionally made his presence known. Wearing a wrinkled, navy blue suit with his hair slicked back greasily, he looked about as good as he smelled.

"Hey there, _detective_. What brings you to my neck of the woods?" the smaller man said coolly and with familiarity. The seated man snorted and took a long drink from his bottle, but did not reply nor turn around. "Come on, Harv; is that any way to treat your old pal?"

Detective Harvey Bullock was content to ignore this man until he felt a hand fall on his shoulder, clasping it tightly. Angrily, he spun around on his bar stool at a speed that should have been impossible for a man his size. In an instant he had grabbed the other man by his jacket and slammed him against the bar, pinning him there with a thick forearm. The complete lack of fear in the man's eyes only fueled Bullock's anger even further as the bar's patrons waited in anticipation for the fight that was sure to come.

"Look, Zucco," Bullock growled, pointing his finger in the man's face, "this is the last time I'm gonna say this; stay out of my way. If I see your ugly mug again, I'm gonna break out the silver bracelets, and this time there ain't gonna be no 'questionable evidence' for you to get out on," he continued. Dipping his hand into his pocket, Bullock retrieved a few crumpled bills and tossed them on the counter before returning his attention to the smaller man. "You got that, _pal_?"

"Face it, Bullock, you and your little buddy Gordon never had nothin' on Tony Zucco; not back then, and definitely not now," he muttered, winking. "Now why don't you let go of me so I can buy you a drink and then we can get down to talking some business. Word on the streets is that the old boss man Rupert Thorne is looking for a few good cops, if you catch my drift."

While he may have been a tad rough around the edges, necessary in his eyes after spending five years in Metropolis, one thing Harvey Bullock was not was a dirty cop. In fact, outside of the most heinous of criminals, there wasn't a thing that Bullock despised more than a cop who played both sides. The added pressure now being applied to Zucco's chest was further evidence of Bullock's disdain.

Though he would have loved nothing more than to pummel the living daylights out of Tony Zucco, Bullock forced himself to refrain from beating the man senseless. Knowing that the last thing the police department needed was another blemish when Commissioner Gordon had worked so hard to rebuild Gotham's faith in its law enforcement, Bullock released his hold on Zucco, roughly straightening out the man's jacket.

"Be a good boy, Tony," said Bullock, patting Zucco's shoulder. "I'd hate to have to find another reason to lock you up."

Heading for the exit, Bullock walked away with the sound of Zucco's laughter echoing in his ears. When Bullock was gone, Zucco took the stool that had just been the detective's and ordered a beer like nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Taking a drink from his glass, he turned his attention to Mike Engel on the television behind the counter.

"_...And in other news, Haly's Circus will be making its' annual three-day stop in Gotham City next weekend. Since the circus first came to Gotham fifteen years ago, its' been well known for drawing some of the city's most elite faces to the Big Top. When asked what attraction he was most looking forward to seeing this year, Bruce Wayne, the owner of Wayne Enterprises, said quote 'The Flying Grayson's. I hear they put on one hell of a show.' If I may, Mr. Wayne, we think so too. Moving on now…_"

Something in Engel's small monologue about the circus had made Zucco listen cling to the reporter's every word. Long after the program had gone to a commercial break, Zucco remained staring at the screen intently. Finally, after quite some time, his lips curled into a wicked smirk as he whispered, "Perfect."

--

The next afternoon saw Bruce Wayne pacing around his office located on the top floor of Wayne Tower in the heart of Gotham City. Carrying a folder thick with papers, Bruce shifted his attention back and forth between the hundred or so pages he had yet to read and the African-American man seated at his desk.

Exasperated, Bruce collapsed into his black leather chair and tossed the folder haphazardly onto the smooth, glossy, oak surface. Elbows on the chair's armrests, he sat with his chin atop his folded hands, staring at the man across from him. A few moments later he let out a deep breath, smiled brightly, and clapped his hands together once.

"Okay, let's do it," exclaimed Bruce.

The African-American man raised a curious eyebrow. "Just like that?" he asked.

"Just like that," Bruce answered with a confirming nod.

"Mr. Wayne, with all due respect, you haven't even gone over most of the file yet. Have you seen the losses they've taken in the last two years? We could be walking into a multi-million dollar loss here."

"You're a good guy, Lucius; I trust your judgment," said Bruce. Opening one of his desk drawers, he retrieved a glass and a bottle of scotch. "The way I see it, if you think the risk is worth the potential rewards, then that's good enough for me. If you don't think it's worth it, then we don't do it," he continued, pouring a generous amount of the potent liquid into his glass. "Care for a drink?"

Dismissing the offer with a wave of his hand, Lucius Fox shook his head. "Oh, no; it's still a little too early for me." Observing one of the two living people who knew his secret, Bruce waited for the argument from Lucius that he knew to be coming. Lucius cared far too much about Bruce and the well being of Wayne Enterprises to let Bruce sign off on something before he knew exactly what he was getting into. It came sooner then Bruce had expected. "I won't beat around the bush, Mr. Wayne, if we can't find a way to turn this company around, there's no reason for buying it in the first place."

"I still think we should do it. Look at it like this, as criminals get more sophisticated the police are going to need more sophisticated weapons to stop them; so we get Gordon involved. He tells us what they need and we make it for them. Even if we lose a little bit of money…"

"A lot of money," Lucius interjected. Reopening the folder, he pointed to an eight figure sum at the bottom of the twenty-second page.

After reading the number, Bruce nodded appropriately and smiled. "Like I said, even if we lose a little bit of money, we've still got this company's ideas and the knowledge from the police of what's happening on the streets. Six months ago it was about being one step ahead of the cops. Now it's about finding a way to keep up with them."

Sighing, Lucius closed the folder in defeat. "I don't suppose we'll ever see the day when Bruce Wayne stops trying to defend Gotham City, will we?"

Taking a drink from his glass, Bruce closed his eyes as the smooth liquid slid down the back of his throat, giving his body the up-and-down sensation of warmth. Upon opening his eyes, he set the glass down and looked at Lucius.

"Never," said Bruce with the faintest hint of a laugh. Not three seconds later there was a rasp upon his office door. "Come in!" he called out, turning to see his secretary enter with a newspaper in hand. With platinum blonde hair and a supermodel figure, Bruce kept Jeannie around for aesthetic purposes more so than for her secretarial skills. "What can I do for you, Jeannie?"

Smiling politely to Lucius, and downright flirtatiously to Bruce, she unfolded the newspaper and set it down on Bruce's desk. "Have you seen this yet, Mr. Wayne? It's all over the place. I don't know how they found out..."

Picking up the paper, Bruce furrowed his brow as he read the headline on the front page of _The_ _Gotham Times_. In big, bold letters were the words "**EnigmaCorp going nowhere**" followed by "CEO Nigma denies potential merger with Wayne Enterprises" written in smaller print underneath.

"No, I haven't," Bruce drawled. "Alfred said the paperboy missed the house this morning."

Peering over the newspaper, Bruce shared a knowing look with Lucius who could do little more than laugh as he shook his head. "Yep, that sounds like old Alfred alright. Always looking out for our best interests isn't he, Mr. Wayne?"Even Bruce had to laugh at that. His lightheartedness was quickly lost, however, as he began to read the article aloud.

"Despite recent claims that conglomerate Wayne Enterprises is looking into the acquisition of floundering special-weapons manufacturer, EnigmaCorp, it would seem that CEO Edward Nigma has no plans of relinquishing the control of his company any time soon. After being spotted at trendy Gotham nightclub _Hush_, late Tuesday evening, Nigma was asked if there was any truth to the rumors of intervention on the behalf of Wayne Enterprises. 'Not at all,' said Nigma, who sipped vodka martinis with a woman on each arm for the majority of the night. 'EnigmaCorp is poised now more than ever to be the number one producer of weapons for this nation's military. As far as I'm concerned, Wayne Enterprises is just a bump in the road and after we unveil our little Ace in the hole, you'll see why.'"

"A bump in the road?" asked Bruce in disbelief. Handing the paper back to Jeannie, Bruce chuckled bitterly. "Well, as far as _I'm_ concerned, Nigma doesn't have much say in the matter as long as the board of directors are willing to sell."

"Do you want me to put that in a press release, Mr. Wayne?" asked Jeannie obliviously.

Closing his eyes to prevent himself from rolling them at her, Bruce slowly shook his head. "No, Jeannie, I don't. Is there anything else you needed?" With no other reason to be there, Jeannie quietly dismissed herself from Bruce's office. Once the door had clicked shut, Bruce returned his attention to Lucius. "Who do you think was responsible for this?"

Standing up, Lucius took the newspaper from the desk and rolled it back up; grasping it tightly, he smacked the paper against his open palm. "I have no idea, Mr. Wayne," he answered, speaking through gritted teeth, "but I fully intend to find out."

--

Shadowed by the looming monstrosity that was Wayne Tower, Edward Nigma stared out his office window with disdain at the giant "W" that marked the tower for all of Gotham to see. Dressed impeccably in a black suit, dark green dress shirt, a plum necktie, and stylish eyeglasses, Nigma's wardrobe displayed all the success his business had failed to create for him in recent years.

Before Bruce Wayne had returned to Gotham City almost two years ago, EnigmaCorp had been the number one weapons manufacturer in the country. But with Bruce and Lucius Fox running the show at Wayne Enterprises, Nigma and his company had been forced aside like yesterday's news. With Wayne Enterprises selling to the nation's military, as well as a multitude of federal law enforcement agencies, Nigma had been forced to search elsewhere for business.

That was how he had discovered the darkness of Gotham's underbelly. Mob families, like the Falcone's, needed weapons just as much as the Army, it seemed. While selling munitions to mobsters and criminals didn't bring in the income that the military did, it was enough to fuel Nigma's lavish lifestyle and barely keep EnigmaCorp afloat.

The man's office was practically a shrine to his public exploits. Clippings from newspapers and tabloids alike adorned the walls, while miniature versions of his many automobiles sat atop his desk. But the true testament to Nigma's narcissism was the walking stick hanging on the coat rack next to his door. Solid gold with a diamond-encrusted handle that was shaped like a question mark, Nigma had purchased it for no reason other than because he could afford it. He'd purchased the cane shortly before Bruce Wayne's return to Gotham, and it had been hanging in the same place ever since.

Just thinking about Bruce Wayne was enough to make Nigma's neck flare red. Going from the top defense manufacturer in the country to a second-rate weapon's dealer was a long way to fall down the social ladder for anyone. It was amplified ten-fold for Nigma, though, who had been diagnosed with Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder as a teenager. If he wanted to be the best at something, he'd do whatever it took to make it happen, going as far as to sabotage an elementary school science fair to ensure his victory in the contest.

Angrily, Nigma slammed his fist against his desk and used the nearby phone to page his secretary. "Alex, send in one of the techs from level two and make it quick. I don't have all day to wait while you sit there and paint your nails."

Nigma's frustration was evident as he hastily undid the top button on his shirt, pulling at his tie to loosen the pressure on his neck. Tiny beads of perspiration had begun to form on his brow when a young man wearing a white lab coat entered the room. He couldn't have been older than twenty-two or so, likely fresh out of college, and he was clearly intimidated by being in Nigma's office.

"Have a seat," said Nigma nonchalantly, pointing to the chair across from him. Nervously, hesitantly, the young man approached the desk and sat down. "What's your name, son?"

"N-Niles, sir," he stuttered, looking everywhere except at Nigma, "Michael Niles."

Rubbing his hands together, Nigma casually removed his glasses; folding in the arms, he set them on his desk so that the lenses faced the young man. "Tell me something, Michael, where do you see yourself in, say, five years? When you envision your future at EnigmaCorp, what does it look like?"

The kid was all but shaking as he looked to Nigma, wondering if this was some kind of trick question. "I-I don't really know, sir. I mean, I've only been with the company for a few months. I definitely don't want to be a low-level technician for the rest of my life, though, if that's what you're asking."

Leaning back in his chair, Nigma smiled and nodded as he stroked the pointed, dark brown goatee around his chin. He exuded confidence, almost to the point of being cocky. "That's a perfectly reasonable answer, Michael. No one wants to spend their entire career at the bottom of the food chain. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to share a little story with you."

Michael nodded meekly, though it was obvious that he was quite uncomfortable. Nigma, however, cared very little about his employee's level of comfort. The only thing Nigma cared about was himself and his own achievements.

Clearing his throat, Nigma began to explain to Michael how he had gotten into his position of power, starting out as a low-level technician with a major corporation just like the young man. Nigma's story was carefully woven, intended to relate with Michael as much as possible. He explained how he earned the respect of his supervisors, working his way up in the company while devoting his time away from his job to his own inventions.

"Now look at me, Michael; I'm Edward Nigma for crying out loud! I am what people aspire to be," Nigma continued, observing Michael carefully. "Do you know why I told you that story? It's because I see so much of myself in you. I think you have all the potential to go as far in this company as you want to, and I'm willing to help you reach your potential."

"I-I'm willing to do whatever it takes, sir," Michael replied.

Nigma's eyes gleamed victoriously. If his secretary Alex succeeded in angering him ninety-nine times out of one hundred, then she'd just had her one good occasion. Nigma could tell just by looking at Michael that this young man would fit perfectly into his plans to reclaim the title that Wayne Enterprises had stolen from him. As naïve and gullible as Michael seemed to be, Alex couldn't have possibly chosen a better technician to send Nigma.

Rising from his seat, Nigma folded his arms behind his back and began to walk around the room. He stopped in front of his window, staring up at Wayne Tower for just a moment before motioning for Michael to join him. Looking from the young man back to the tower, Nigma smiled brightly. "I present to you, Mr. Niles, your first assignment as Personal Assistant to Edward Nigma."

"Wayne Tower?" asked Michael, confused.

"Yes, Wayne Tower. Word is that old Bruce has got his people up there at Wayne Enterprises working night and day on some new weapon. But see, unlike me, Wayne just cares about the money. He'll sell it to the highest bidder even if it's an enemy of this nation. I'd feel personally responsible if that ever happened, so I want you to find out everything you possibly can about Bruce Wayne. Is that clear?"

Staring up at the enormous building, Michael shifted his gaze from Wayne Tower to Nigma for just a moment before looking back at the tower. Swallowing deeply, Michael slowly nodded his head in agreement.

"Good. From this moment forward, consider your commitment to level two completed," said Nigma, returning to his chair. When the young man didn't immediately leave the office, Nigma cleared his throat and pointed towards the door. "You can go now."

Doing as instructed, Michael turned for the exit. He had just gotten to the door and was reaching for the handle when Nigma called out for him to stop. Standing up from his chair, Nigma walked passed Michael silently. Upon removing a painting from the wall, Michael noticed what looked like the door to a safe. It took two codes, a key, and a retinal scan before the door opened. Nigma reached inside, pulled out a cell phone and charger, and handed them to Michael.

"Keep that on at all times," Nigma instructed as Michael took the devices from his boss. "I don't care what time it is or what you're doing. If I call you, I expect you to answer. Is that understood?"

"Y-yes, sir," answered Michael, nodding vehemently.

"Excellent," Nigma replied, turning his back on Michael. "_Now_ you can go."

--

Only the dimness of a single light bulb illuminated the sweating form of Bruce Wayne as he slid effortlessly around a punching bag hanging from the ceiling of Wayne Manor's modest gym. The one hundred and fifty square foot room and the workout equipment occupying it hadn't been in the blueprints when Bruce's great-great-grandfather had built the home over one hundred years ago. It was an upgrade; one of many that Bruce had ordered after the manor was burned down by Ra's al Ghul, though most were needless now that Batman was gone.

On his toes, Bruce bounced to the music—loud, hard rock—being pumped into the room by a quartet of two-thousand watt speakers. He threw steady streams of kicks and punches at the bag, grunting from the burning sensation attacking his arms and legs. Jabs were followed with snap kicks; hooks with a roundhouse that left the bag swinging like an out of control pendulum.

The more he hit the bag the more it hurt, and the more it hurt the more Bruce wanted to keep going. He needed this, if for no other reason than to remind himself what he was capable of, the pain that his hands and feet could inflict on someone. He may not have been wearing the costume anymore, but the spirit of the Batman was something that would never leave him. It had become as much a part of Bruce's life as the fast cars he drove and the even faster women that rode in the seat next to him.

Unleashing a vicious spinning side kick, Bruce winced inwardly as the chain that connected the bag to the ceiling started to squeak. Hands at his hips, he looked up at the swinging cylinder as if to say, "_This again?_"

Then he began to count up from zero, whispering the numbers to himself. When he reached seven, he pointed to the floor; at the exact same time, the chain gave way and the bag dropped along with a shower of splintered wood and saw dust. The smile Bruce wore was one of triumph and victory as he watched the bag roll across the floor. He applauded accordingly when Alfred, carrying a tray of food, hopped over the moving obstacle without dropping a single morsel.

Setting the tray down on one of the weight benches, a clearly disgruntled Alfred looked at the punching bag, which now lie harmlessly against a nearby wall, turned his attention to Bruce and shook his head. "I can understand the occasional light bulb, Master Wayne, but you're going to have to fix that little mess yourself."

Bruce laughed as he scooped up his towel from the floor and brought it to his brow. "Don't worry, Alfred, I don't expect you to get up there," said Bruce, mopping his face. "Besides, it's not like this is the first time I've ever done that."

Turning his attention to the trio of holes in the ceiling that had just become a quartet, Alfred shrugged his shoulders helplessly. "No, I suppose it isn't. We've been back here for two months and you've already put four holes in the ceiling. Do you know what that means?"

"That I need to kick harder?" asked Bruce in return, a sly grin spread across his lips.

"You're not going to be smiling when your upstairs and the floor gives way, are you?" Alfred retorted as Bruce took a seat on the weight bench and immediately started to eat from the tray, practically inhaling a forkful of grilled chicken breast. "Well then, I guess I won't be eating lunch this afternoon."

Knowing that Alfred was being sarcastic, Bruce replied by smirking and extending a forkful of chicken to his butler who dismissed the offer with a wave of his hand. "Nice trick with the paper this morning, by the way," Bruce noted, chewing. "I had to find out about Nigma and his Gotham sized mouth from Jeannie."

"Oh, well I was hoping you would take the news a little bit better if it came from a pretty face, Master Wayne," said a smirking Alfred.

Bruce just rolled his eyes. "Hope in one hand and do something else in the other, Alfred, and then see which hand gets full first," he retorted, stabbing at a piece of meat. "Lucius is going to look into who leaked news of the sale to Nigma. I know how hard Lucius worked to make sure that Nigma wasn't at a single one of those meetings, which means that it has to be one of EnigmaCorp's board members."

"If you've already got it all figured out, then why send Lucius?" asked Alfred rhetorically and to the dismay of his employer.

Sighing, Bruce shook his head. "That's the problem, Alfred; I don't have it all figured out. Six months ago, I had everything figured out. There was nothing I couldn't stop; no one I couldn't save. I was in control!" said Bruce, his voice rising. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to remain calm. Just because Alfred was in the room didn't mean that he deserved Bruce's ire. "I was in control," he repeated, quieter this time. "Now it's like I'm just along for the ride."

For Alfred, it was a rarity indeed when his young master let his defensive walls down and opened up this way. To hear Bruce utter such an admittance meant that the man was nearing his breaking point. Crossing the short distance between them, Alfred took a seat next to Bruce on the weight bench.

"I don't think you realize how similar you and your father are," said Alfred, Bruce raising an eyebrow quizzically. "Your father wanted to save every single person in Gotham City that needed saving. He would spend countless amounts of money, and nearly as much time, to anything he could find that would better the lives of Gotham's citizens. Then, one day, he came home from work, sat down in his favorite chair, and told your mother he'd finally realized that he couldn't save everybody. Do you know what he did the next morning?"

"No," said Bruce, his voice nearly a whisper as he shook his head.

"He wrote a two million dollar check to the Gotham Boys & Girls Club," answered Alfred. "You see, Master Wayne, even when he was certain that he could no longer do it, he never stopped trying. The only thing left to find out now is whether or not you will stop trying."

That being said, Alfred rose from his seat and quietly exited the room, leaving Bruce alone to ponder the butler's statement. Would he ever stop trying to save Gotham? Had he _already _stopped trying to save Gotham? They were questions that, unfortunately, Bruce did not yet have the answer to.

--

Michael Niles was a lot of things; young, naïve, impressionable, willing to do anything necessary to succeed. He wanted so badly to impress his boss that he'd gone to the most extreme of lengths to ensure that he got the job done. He was also far more intelligent than Nigma had given him credit for.

Dressed in an emblazoned, dark brown shirt tucked into a pair of matching shorts, Michael carried a large cardboard box under his arm. The keycard in his right pocket, and the lifeless body of the man it belonged to, were only further evidence of how far Michael was willing to go.

For a week he'd watched Wayne Enterprises, looking for a way to get the information Nigma wanted. Conversations with employees had been disappointing at best. Three nights at various bars and two-hundred dollars worth of bar tabs had earned him nothing that wasn't in the newspapers on a daily basis; Bruce Wayne was a womanizer, a different girl—or two—on his arm each night. He spent his money lavishly, stayed out until the wee hours of the morning, and rarely came into work before lunch.

Essentially, Michael had wasted a week on nothing. The pressure from Nigma grew stronger every day and Michael was starting to get desperate. It was in that moment of desperation that Michael made the biggest decision of his entire life. When the police found the body of Wayne Enterprises employee Jonathan Sanchez hanging limply in his garage it would look like a suicide. Michael had made sure of that.

Walking through the front door of Wayne Tower, Michael headed directly for the receptionist's desk, but was stopped by two men in black suits. "Hand over that package, sir," said one of the men.

"What? Why?" asked Michael as the other man waved a metal detecting wand around his body. When the handheld device started to beep near his hip, Michael was eternally grateful that his keys were in his left pocket. The last thing he needed was one of the security guards finding the stolen key card.

"Gotta run it through the X-ray machine, sir," the first man answered, reaching for the package.

"You gotta be kidding me!" Michael replied, agitated.

The man shook his head. "No, sir; Mr. Wayne takes the security of his employees very seriously. Now, you can either hand over that package or you can turn around and leave. It's up to you."

Sighing, Michael gave the box to the security guard just as the other had finished up with the wand. By the time he got to the other end of the X-ray machine, the package was coming down the conveyer belt towards him. "Can I go now?" asked Michael angrily, picking up the box.

The security guard smiled. "Have a great day, sir." Rolling his eyes, Michael turned for the receptionist's desk. Once he was out of earshot, the security guard turned to his partner and mumbled, "Man, I wish Wayne let us hit idiots like that."

His partner just nodded in agreement, watching Michael as he signed in at the desk and headed for the elevators. On the ninth floor, Michael exited the elevator and began making his way towards his destination as casually as possible. As it was the beginning of the lunch hour, most of the cubicles he strolled by were empty and would stay that way for at least another half hour.

At every cubicle he checked the computers to see if its occupant had left their machine unlocked. He'd gone passed nearly every unoccupied station on the ninth floor and was about to retreat to another level of the building when he found an unlocked computer. Michael's eyes lit up as if he'd just won the lottery. Checking to see if there were any security cameras watching him, he determined that he was in the clear and slid into the empty chair.

Setting the box on the floor, Michael ripped it open and dipped his hand into a pool of Styrofoam peanuts until he found what he was looking for. The proverbial treasure in the chest was nothing more than a slim jewel case that held a blank compact disc inside. After inserting the disc into the computer's CD-Rom drive, he went to work on getting the information he needed.

Hacking a server was nothing new for Michael; he'd been doing it since high school, altering the grades of his fellow classmates for a nominal fee. Still, the guard hadn't been joking when he said that Bruce Wayne took his security seriously. The servers of the Blüdhaven School District were nothing compared to those of Wayne Enterprises. Just getting through the first layer of security had been a ten minute process in itself.

Michael's fingers flew across the keyboard, his eyes reading the words on the screen just as rapidly. Checking the clock in the bottom corner of the screen, Michael saw that he only had a few more minutes before people started returning from lunch. Inputting a few final commands, he hit the Enter key and sat back in the chair, waiting as a progress bar appeared on the monitor.

He tapped his fingers against the desk impatiently as he watched the bar creep along from zero to one-hundred at a pace that made Michael cringe inwardly. Something told him that he wasn't going to make it. When the data had finished loading he retrieved the CD and took off for the elevator, leaving the box behind. Only in the safety of the elevator did he relax, breathing a sigh of relief as he slumped against the wall.

By the time the elevator had reached the lobby, Michael had composed himself and tucked the disc into the back of his pants. As he walked towards the pair of security guards he nodded politely to them, unaware that pinhole cameras were located in every ceiling in every room on every floor of Wayne Tower. Only the restrooms and the offices of Bruce Wayne and the nine board members were left unwatched.

"Hey, stop right there!"

Hearing one of the security guards yelling at him, Michael paused at the door and looked back to see them both running at him, having just received word of Michael's exploits on the ninth floor. A powerful rush of adrenaline started to course through his body; turning around, he pushed his way through the door and took off at a dead sprint. The security guards gave chase, following Michael as he ran down the crowded streets of Gotham City.

Michael pushed his way through the crowds, throwing people to the side without a care in the world except getting away. For what seemed like miles he ran harder than he had ever ran before, pushing himself until he reached the city park. At this point he'd lost the security guards, but the blaring sirens of Gotham's finest weren't far behind.

Searching for a place to hide in the middle of an open field proved to be even harder than it sounded. Forcing himself to keep running, he headed in the direction of the forest on the outskirts of the city. Sometimes the sirens seemed like they were miles away, while other times they sounded like they were nipping at his heels.

Michael didn't know how long he'd been on the run for when his legs finally gave out a quarter of a mile into the forest. He collapsed against a tree, breathing hard as he lay slumped at its base. Not seconds later he felt the cell phone Nigma had given him vibrating against his leg. Grimacing, Michael slowly inched his hand to his pocket until his fingers wrapped around the phone. Forcing himself into a sitting position, he looked at the screen to see that he had a new text message.

"_Riddle me this, riddle me that,_" it read. "_What's small, black, and goes BOOM!?_"

Just moments after reading the question the cell phone started to vibrate again, but Michael didn't get to read this message. The phone literally exploded in his hand when he pressed the button to open the new text. In the days that followed, police search teams and canine units would find the remains of Michael Niles scattered around the forest, along with a crushed CD and the charred remnants of what had once been a cell phone.

While Michael lay dead, Nigma sat comfortably behind his desk at EnigmaCorp, reading the email that his loyal employee had sent to him just before leaving Wayne Enterprises. Everything that Michael had saved to the disc had already been sent to Nigma; the disc had merely been the backup plan in case the email somehow failed.

The more Nigma read, the more excited he grew. Right there at his fingertips were hundreds of files; every email and instant message that had been sent, every document and folder that had been saved…he had them all.

Bruce Wayne didn't know what he was in for.

--


End file.
